“In the cabanes of the Mohawk clan of the Iroquois I am known as The Eagle,” he said calmly. There was truth in this, though he had never visited the elm-bark lodges of his Mohawk friends. “The Eagle does not talk with cowards who fear to show themselves. Let my red brother call his French friend out into the light.”
At the Mohawk name, the Abnaki chief started slightly. Then, answering Crawford’s challenge, another figure stepped from the shadows, pistol cocked. Crawford was astonished, first to perceive that it was a boy of sixteen, and second, by the aspect of this boy. He was handsome as an Apollo, long brown curls framing his perfect features and despite his youth there was a certain air of dignity and command in his countenance. His eyes glinted hard at Crawford as he spoke in French, using the redskin phraseology.
“My white brother has a Mohawk name, but he is not a Mohawk; he speaks with the French tongue, but he is no Frenchman. Let him speak. I am Le Moyne de Bienville.”
Bienville—brother to Iberville! Crawford could not repress his astonishment as he regarded this boy of sixteen, accompanying veteran wood-rovers on a raid so perilous and even desperate. And reading the look, Bienville’s boyish pride instantly resented it.
“Speak!” he snapped angrily. “Is The Eagle a woman, that he fears to speak to warriors?”
The Abnaki chief, hand on knife, watched Crawford with unwinking gaze.
“The Eagle looks at the sun and does not blink,” and Crawford’s rare smile leaped out, so that the boy’s anger vanished instantly under the implied compliment. “But The Eagle has been asked a question by this snapping cur. The Eagle did not know that the Abnakis had a war-chief; he thought they were women, whom the French Mohawks protected from the wrath of the Iroquois nation. Now let this Caniba dog, whose clan is only a memory among the Abnaki nation, gaze upon this coat which The Eagle wears. Let his eyes rest upon these moccasins. He has often been in the lodge of Saint-Castin; perhaps he will recognize them.”
The Abnaki, whose coppery breast was heaving with rage at these words, spat reply.
“They belong to my brother Saint-Castin.”
At this, Bienville started slightly and watched Crawford in astonished speculation. The latter puffed again at his pipe, then spoke quietly, deliberately.